


When All Else Fades

by Commander_Freddy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dreams, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:58:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Commander_Freddy/pseuds/Commander_Freddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Jean Kirschstein moves through his life, he has recurring dreams of a single man. But the dreams seem different to normal dreams, heavier, more important, and Jean spends his life ever so slowly finding out the truth behind them, and him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All Else Fades

Meeting in a dream was not considered professional, courteous, or even interesting to young Jean Kirschstein. His dreams were often full of strangers, faces indistinguishable and easily forgotten, there for an unknown reason or no reason at all. Anyone he met in a dream would be quickly dismissed – they did not exist and would not impact his life any further once he awoke. Sometimes they would, however, interest him within the dream; much like those he encountered in real life, not every single person in his dreams was boring or repulsive – merely transient. So it did not matter to Jean when one day a boy of his age resplendent in freckles came to him in a dream.

 

The dream had not bothered to give him any real form below the neck, so it was his face that Jean would spend the dream fixated upon. Upturned button nose, tan skin covered in freckles, warm eyes and easy smile followed him all night long. They talked, although he would never be able to recall about what. It was not a particularly unusual dream and when he woke up, Jean knew he had already forgotten most of it. Still, he would not be able to shake the feeling that there was something important about the dream, some deeper meaning he had not been able to see beneath the shell of freckles and smiles. He tried not to dwell on it, but as time dripped by sometimes the memory of the dream would resurface and Jean would grow afraid that perhaps it had been some great sign, that perhaps what the boy was saying had been desperately important, and he had not been able to see what it was.

 

A few years later Jean had another dream – a bizarre, rather whimsical one from which you would wake and either forget or spend ages wondering how on earth your brain could come up with it. In the dream Jean was a man in overalls and a scowl who, although the dream could not have lasted more than an hour, spent all his days tending to his mushroom farm. He lived in a cottage that was made of moss and smelt damp everywhere, the sky was always grey, his small farm was ringed in huge trees            and the horizon was shrouded in mist. But, since it was a dream, none of this seemed odd to Jean. Here, in this strange universe, this was his life. Jean had no idea how mushrooms were grown or how one tended to them, so the small field before the moss house changed and shifted through the dream, and the movements his hands made above them were vague and ever changing. Still, Jean worked hard in his dream, determined, for some reason, to make the mushrooms grow.

 

The gate swung open halfway through the dream, just as Jean was becoming fully absorbed in his fungal task. A young man strode in, the bottoms of his shoes grazing the tops of some of the younger mushrooms.

 

“Watch it,” said Jean. He was still bent over some mushrooms and although he had not looked up, he knew someone was there. That is the nature of dreams, he would later think, although somehow this instance felt different. Deeper, heavier even. “You’ll trample them.”

 

The visitor did not reply, but instead continued to walk towards Jean. His boots were unzipped and while their soles brushed the summit of mushrooms, none were damaged. Instead, they immediately sprung straight upright again. Somehow Jean recognised the visitor by this graceful stride, his broad shoulders and his gentle movements, even though the last time they’d met the visitor had been nothing but a face. Jean could recall the face instantly and was not surprised at all to see it affixed to the freckled neck of his visitor.  Interestingly enough the visitor seemed to have aged from the last dream, and at the same rate Jean had too.

 

“You should fix your boots,” said Jean. “They might get stuck in the mud.” And there was indeed mud everywhere now, despite the ground being dry not a second ago.

 

The visitor did not respond, but kept walking toward Jean. He was being rather rude, Jean thought, but only because he did not want to think of how it was actually quite disconcerting.

 

“Are you here for some mushrooms?” Jean asked, bending back to his crop. This stranger was important, he knew that, but he was starting to get worried.

 

From somewhere around the visitor a strange whispering, like the agitated mutterings of the wind, came and found Jean’s ears.

 

“What is it?” he asked, now rising fully to his feet.

 

There was worry on the stranger’s face now, worry and confusion and fear. But what Jean noticed the most was that his mouth was moving, clearly trying to form some words. Even as Jean watched the stranger began to grow more desperate, the whispering fluctuating in volume as his form did too. When the visitor’s torso became an indistinguishable blur for a second, Jean could make out a single word, but everything else was rushing air and no more.

 

Jean awoke sweating and tasting something disgusting at the back of his throat. He could barely remember what had happened in the dream, only that an old face had reappeared, now mounted upon a body, and had whispered Jean’s name amid the cries of wind and escaping steam.

 

Jean grew older slowly, as humans are wont to do, and in time became a man with an education and a fiancée and an office job, just as expected. Though throughout the course of his adolescence he did not dream again of a young freckled man, he never forgot what little he remembered of either dream. The smile and the gait and the way he seemed to sit heavier in his mind than any other memory of Jean’s. But his freckled companion was not gone forever.

 

A cold was buzzing in the back of his mind when 24 year-old Jean fell into a dream of a cinema. The cinema foyer was small, the pastel-coloured paint on the walls chipped and faded and the popcorn machine in the corner looked as if it had seen far better days.  The dream was crystal clear, as if it were a memory of somewhere often visited, but Jean swore he’d never seen the cinema before. He sat down on a bench against the wall purely for something to do, but it wasn’t long before an opportunity presented itself.

 

“Hello Jean.” The voice once more sounded windy and far away, but today it was much more solid than it had been in the last dream. The young man was walking toward Jean now, seemingly coming from nowhere, and once again his body was indistinguishable while his face was crystal clear. Again he had aged the same way Jean had, and matched his age. But now the cinema was fading the way the stranger once had, when the two of them stood confused in a field of mushrooms.

 

“I’m getting better,” said the visitor. “You can hear me, right?”

 

Jean could only nod, and the smile on the stranger’s face seemed to triple.

 

“Just hold on, Jean. It’s hard – I can barely hold on now – but just wait. I’ll be back soon, and then we’ll be able to talk.”

 

The stranger seemed so excited but Jean didn’t have a clue as to what was happening. He wanted to ask what was going on, whom he was and why this all seemed so important but the dream was slipping away now. There was practically nothing left of the cinema but the shadow of colour and the stranger was fading too. Jean thought that perhaps he was trying to speak again, but all that came out was the rushing of the wind.

 

But this time, when Jean woke up, he remembered every second.

 

Jean found himself beginning to think of the young man whenever his life was quiet or even when he saw a similar-looking stranger. He was worried, this was certainly more than a normal dream, but admitting that would be opening the door to a whole host of speculations Jean had never had time for, like spirits and dream-catchers and psychics.  Still, he couldn’t stop wondering about the nature of this strange boy and why he visited Jean in his dreams.

 

A few years later Jean again dreamed of the freckled young man, and the dream transpired much like the very first one. They had sat and talked for such a long time and Jean just knew that the contents of the conversation were mind-numbingly important, yet somehow he had forgotten everything. He had initially woken excited and full of hope for something but his mood had come crashing down the second he realised he didn’t remember anything. He’d lain awake for hours, desperately grabbing around in the recesses of his memory, furious with himself for forgetting something so important. All he knew was that his intuition had been right – the young man was _very_ important.

 

But time went on without him and Jean soon began to doubt his thoughts. Perhaps the dream really just was an unimportant figment of his imagination, mistakenly assigned significance solely because of its reoccurrence. Perhaps the boy had been someone he had once known in early childhood, someone who had just stuck in his memory for whatever reason. It couldn’t have been anything too important, not really.

 

In four years time, Jean would have a daughter, and another dream of the stranger. But the dream was fruitless, short, distorted and quickly forgotten. Whenever the freckled stranger had tried to speak, only wind came, and once more he had no form but for his face, contorted with concern and incomprehension. By the end of it, all Jean would remember was that face and since there was nothing more, he grew certain that it was just a reoccurring dream from his youth that would soon fade for good.

 

There was a long stretch of his life where the visitor made no appearance, but Jean’s life certainly did not slow for it. His daughter grew and he parted with his wife, and eventually his daughter parted with him too, until he was a moderately successful businessman in a well-furnished house patiently waiting until he could retire, but having no plans as for what he would do after. Much the same way he had once viewed graduation, all those years ago. Through this time the freckled stranger had become nothing more than a faded old memory, slipping and shifting from Jean’s mind the way his body had within the dreams.  But Jean could not go forever without his smiling stranger, and eventually he returned.

 

Once again Jean was sick when he entered the dream – this time feverish with a terrible flu – and he entered unconsciousness slowly, painfully and poorly.  _A fever dream_ was his first thought upon encountering the stranger in his dream. Not so much because of the stranger per say, but because of where the dream was set.  It was as if Jean had never fallen asleep, for now he sat upright in his bed, while the visitor sat on the edge and watched him with warm eyes and bright smile.

 

“Hello Jean.”

 

This time, Jean did not waste time wondering or waiting for the visitor to speak.

 

“Who are you?”

 

The smiled dimmed and the eyes cooled and eventually the visitor looked away. “You forgot the dream. You forgot everything we talked about.”

 

“Yes, I-” Jean floundered for a second. “What is this? What are these dreams? Who are you and why do you seem so… important?”

 

The visitor suddenly seemed very hurt. “You know Jean, you do. You just need to remember.”

 

“Remember what, the dreams?”

 

“ _Us_ , Jean!” cried the visitor, clearly agitated. “I told you, remember? The dream was solid, it was supposed to work! Why is this happening?” he was almost distraught now. “I can’t speak with you, I can’t live with you, what is this? It’s taken me so long to learn how to communicate with you, your life’s almost completely gone!”

 

Jean was more confused now than he had ever been. “What are you talking about? Am I supposed to know you?” And then he seriously considered the visitor’s last sentence. “Am I going to die soon?”

 

“I-I… I don’t think you were even supposed to be in this life at all.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“You were sent without me – it doesn’t make any sense! You never live without me! Sometimes we never meet and sometimes one of us dies too soon but we’re always together somehow… Why am I only able to see you through bad dreams that you never remember? What’s happened?”

 

Jean suddenly found himself extremely sad, although he still had no idea what was happening. The visitor’s emotions seemed to be contagious.

 

“I remember you,” Jean said quietly. “I remember your face every time. I can’t remember what we said or who you are but I know your face. I’ve never forgotten you. You’ve been here since my earliest childhood.”

 

“Jean, I’ve been here for so much longer.” The visitor was almost close to tears now. “It was so much easier when neither of us knew, meeting each other for the first time over and over again. It was beautiful. Why can’t we have that now? Why do I have to know everything about you and you have no idea I even properly exist?”

 

Jean was suddenly overcome with an incredible desire to pull the visitor close and hug him until that beautiful warm smile returned, although he wasn’t sure why.  

 

“Who are you?” he said quietly. “Please, I want to know everything.”

 

“Jean, it’s too much to tell. The only way you could possibly comprehend it is if you lived it. And-” The visitor was crying now, Jean could see the tears and somehow they were the worst sight he’d ever seen. “And you did. You lived it all with me.”

 

“Your name at least. Please.”

 

“My name is Marco. And I love you.”

 

The dream did not last long after that, barely a few seconds, as Marco blurred his way out of Jean’s mind, leaving him afraid to wake up. What if this dream was like the other conversation dreams and would be torn from his memory instantly? What if the other conversations had been this dream, the same conversation that Marco was forced to repeat? And who exactly was Marco anyway?

_Meeting each other for the first time over and over again_.

 

He had known Marco before, many times. And for some reason it was weird he was living without him now. Even as he thought it, the idea of living without Marco was suddenly frightening to Jean. There had been so much affection contained within Marco, and so much anguish too at the thought of not being able to live with Jean… It was oddly comforting. But still he was worried

 

Jean lay in bed for a long time thinking about Marco and wondering about their relationship. How was it possible that they had met many times? Jean had never seen him in his life, only in the dreams had they met. Was that what he had been talking about? No, impossible. Marco had been distressed by their dream communication – he hated having to reintroduce himself to Jean. So what had he been talking about?

 

It was midday before Jean realised that he was fully awake, and could completely remember the dream.

 

The flu was still roiling strong in his system though, and it made thought hard. Jean was tempted to drive to the pharmacy and pick up some medication, but he could barely will himself to get out of bed. Eventually, he decided just to fall back asleep.

 

He had hoped that Marco would return in another dream, but the hope proved fruitless. He’d known there was no real chance, there were years between each of the dreams, yet he was still torn at Marco’s absence. He had to know more about him, and their past together.

 

When he woke again he had no idea what time it was, or indeed of anything for the flu had completely taken control of his mind. Everything ached and the fever still raged, he was sick as a dog and could barely breathe. He reasoned he should probably call in sick but couldn’t move his arm to the phone. He lay there in pain and sickness, pitying himself and admonishing himself at the same time, before eventually falling asleep again.

 

This process repeated for a long, indistinguishable amount of time with Jean growing sicker every time he awoke. And still no further dreams of Marco.

 

 _Come help me Marco_ , Jean found himself thinking. _I’m sick and I ache and didn’t you say you loved me? Why would you say that? Tell me about yourself Marco, come and distract me from this_. _Won’t you tell me about us?_

 

It wasn’t long before Jean started nursing the idea that he had more than just the common flu. His thoughts ranged from pneumonia to the bubonic plague to over exaggeration and self-pity on his part. After all, Jean had lived quite a healthy life and had been pumped full of all his vaccinations as a child. He probably just wasn’t used to a proper flu, right?

 

_Right, Marco?_

 

The phone rang several times during the course of Jean’s illness and every time he couldn’t bring himself to answer it. Sometimes his arm ached too much, sometimes he could barely breathe and sometimes he was just too tired. Other times he could barely think. His daughter showed up once and spoke to him, but for the life of him jean couldn’t remember a word either of them had said. The next day a doctor showed up, and Jean could remember being poked and prodded and asked questions he could hardly comprehend, let alone answer. He fell asleep for a long time once the doctor was gone, and when he awoke he was with his daughter again, but his surroundings had changed.

 

_A hospital. Marco, I’m in a hospital, won’t you help me now?_

 

He watched what seemed to be hundreds of medical staff come in, check his charts, fiddle with medical equipment and speak to his daughter in hushed tones that made her eyes move too quickly.

 

“You’re going to be fine, Dad,” she would say but Jean knew he wouldn’t. There was something about the way people moved about him and how they spoke to him – along, of course, with the terrible pain the ‘flu’ put him through – that made Jean certain that he wasn’t going to make it out of this in peak condition.

 

 _Am I to die, Marco? What would happen, then? Would you still be able to reach me? Do people dream when they sleep in the earth? Or are you gone from me forever?_  

 

Jean would fade form his life the way Marco would fade from his dreams – everything would blur, the world turn to confusion and in the end his breath would turn into the harsh, laboured sound of escaping steam and whistling wind. Not many came to visit him besides his daughter. She was so good, his daughter. Always smiling, always polite, always optimistic.

 

_Aren’t they such good characteristics, Marco? I think you’d love to meet my daughter._

 

He slept through his last day on Earth. But alas, he did not dream of Marco.

 

\---

 

The light was bright, but did not hurt his eyes. Perhaps because it was so warm and welcoming, or perhaps because Jean Kirschstein had left his eyes in a hospital bed to rot, along with the rest of his body and a life he had never quite lived. He did not know where he was, or even if the place really existed, but he was certain he was dead. Being dead is very different to being alive, especially if you transitioned in agony. Being dead is actually quite refreshing. One never feels quite so alive and ready for action than when they have expired.

 

“Jean!”

 

 _Marco_.

 

Jean (although he did not really have a form) spun and turned to face behind him (although there wasn’t really a ‘behind’ as he no longer existed in physical space) to see Marco standing there (although Marco didn’t have a form, either) and was overcome with incredible joy. It is actually quite easy to feel joy once you have died, as it comes straight from the soul and no longer has to be filtered through a physical body or brain.

 

“Do you remember yet?”

 

And then Jean _did_.

 

He remembered growing up with Marco, he remembered meeting Marco as an old man, remembered living with Marco, their weddings and Marco’s funerals. He remembered the future and the past and the despair and the glee and everyone they had ever known together. He remembered Marco’s tears and Marco’s laughter and the exact location every single one of Marco’s freckles. He remembered Marco walking away and Marco as close to him as possible. He remembered their houses, their apartments, their castles and their hovels. He remembered a hospital of the clergy in Milan and an alleyway in Trost and then he remembered a truck parked in a Barossa Valley field and a maintenance closet on humanity’s greatest starship. He remembered meeting Marco again and again, and dying again and again and every time all of their liftetimes together rushing back into his memories.

 

Like now, when all in a single instant Jean remembered every single life he had lived with Marco Bodt.  

 

“I remember Marco, I do!” Jean bellowed, if a soul can bellow, and then Marco was tight in his arms, if a soul can have arms, and the two were safe and together. Because souls most certainly be together, and the bonds they form can be so strong as to tear through the wall between life and death and touch the dreams of their beloved.

 

“It took me so long,” Marco whispered. “So long for me to understand that you were living but I wasn’t. So long for me to understand that I couldn’t be with you this time. So long to learn to manipulate dreams. So long to tell you I loved you. So long to tell you were never really alone. So long for us to be together again.  So long just for me to reach you.”

 

All Jean could do was hold Marco. Hold him and radiate as much love and safety as he could, determined never to leave him again.

 

“We’re together now. And even if for the next thousand lifetimes all we do is brush shoulders at a concert or fight in the same battle or serve the same master or – I dunno, you sell me a horse or something – we’re still going to be together in the end. When all else fades, I’ll be here for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in like a day and a night and I got the idea when I was super tired and confused so please forgive any mistakes or weirdness gone.
> 
> Also thanks to a few friends for ideas, support, beta-ing it at a volleyball game and being wonderfully blunt about the suckiness of the original ending.


End file.
